


Pathetic Fallacy

by celestialskiff



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexuality, Breathplay, Canon-typical references to bestiality, F/F, Femslash, Fillory (The Magicians), Idiots in Love, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Telling Quentin What To Do Because He Loves It, Vaginal Fingering, Very practical women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 07:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18256154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: Margo sighed. “It’s probably a Biblical flood then. We’ll have to build an ark. Two of everything. We’ll leave Quentin behind. I’m not sacrificing you or me.”“We’ll pretend he’s some kind of weird Earth dog,” Eliot said.Post-Monster. Fillory is flooding; Margo’s having at least one emotion and she hates it; Eliot and Quentin are way too into each other; Fen really needs to take the edge off.





	Pathetic Fallacy

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after S04, but will probably be jossed soon. Thanks to **capeofstorm** for the always wonderful and efficient beta. Not America-picked.

1\. 

Fen leant out the window, cool air soothing her flushed face. Margo had shouted at two members of the palace staff, neither of whom, in Fen’s opinion, had done anything wrong. 

She heard Margo sigh heavily behind her. “No one here is competent,” she said. “Holy shit, I’m tired.” 

It wasn’t a comment Fen felt she needed to reply to. 

“At least we have wine,” Margo added. There was an edge to her voice, and at the same moment, Fen felt cold rain fall on her face, a thin shower. She smelt water on dry earth. Then, as though undecided, the shower stopped. 

Fen turned back to the room. Margo was gone.

** 

Quentin daydreamed. The Monster laced his hands around Quentin’s throat, and tightened, tightened. Quentin gave himself up to the feeling – he was gone, he belonged to those hands, they chose whether he breathed or blacked out. He belonged to the Monster, the body pressed up against his own, weight of muscle, of thigh; the red rush of pain in his head – 

He was crying, sitting alone in the council chambers in Fillory, and fucking crying. An internalised therapist’s voice said, _It’s been very tense, you just need to release some emotions, this is healthy..._

“Fuck off,” Quentin said, into the hand he used to scrub his face. Outside, the sun was setting, an impossibly beautiful red-gold Fillory sunset. 

“ _There_ you are. We found some wine, and I could use it.” Margo stopped. “Well, I hope you’re not getting those proclamations wet. It takes the calligraphers forever to draft them out.” 

“I’m fine,” Quentin said. “Thanks.” 

Margo snorted. She came over to the head of the table, and stood next to him, gathering the papers into one messy pile. “I didn’t ask if you were fine. Am I fine? Is Eliot fine? No. That’s not how we live.” 

Quentin bit his lip, looked up at her. She seemed smaller, somehow, than he remembered. More brittle. “Maybe we should.” 

“Is that why you’re crying? In mourning for your ordinary life?” 

Longing. Longing for hands at his throat, the smell of Eliot, the taste of Eliot. Longing to be helpless, to give up all control... “What ordinary life?” he said. “I’m just fucked up.” 

“And that’s why we drink.” Margo grabbed his wrist. “Come on. Fen’s looking more bummed out than usual.” 

*

Later, when he kissed Eliot, he tasted salt in both their mouths and for a moment he thought he tasted blood. It was probably more tears, because they were both raw wounds right now, and wine made them cry. But he was comforted by iron between them, by losing himself to the potency of blood. He had wanted Eliot’s hands to erase him. He breathed into Eliot’s mouth, bit Eliot’s neck, rutted his cock against Eliot’s groin. He felt like he had lost all his skin. Eliot’s touch didn’t erase him, it recreated him, built back up muscles and organs and hands, until he was remade into someone loving, someone whole. 

It hurt. It hurt a lot more than he would have believed. 

**

Eliot had been awake for some time before the rain began, but the rain woke Quentin. Eliot was tense – with fear, he realised, as he watched Quentin’s forehead wrinkle. The Monster’s presence had left his heart weak, hurting – a literal agony, a place he hadn’t known could feel pain like this. It was easier to think of it in metaphor. _My heart is breaking, dammit, and it should._

But Quentin looked up at Eliot, lips parted, unflinching. He crossed the space between them on the bed, put his arm around Eliot’s chest, his head slotting against Eliot’s shoulder. “Morning.”

Eliot licked his lips. “I thought you might...” 

“Bitch out on you?” Quentin said. His voice was brittle, but amused, too. “I thought _you_ might.” 

“That’s fair.” 

“I won’t if you won’t.” 

Quentin was naked, warm. The rain spattered the windows, an impossibly cosy sound. The kind of sound Fillory was primed to provide. Eliot ran his hand down Quentin’s flank, thinking of the heat of Quentin’s mouth, the dexterity of his fingers. It wasn’t the first time they’d ever fucked, but this, between them, felt impossibly new. 

Quentin’s arm tightened around him. Eliot said, “It was pretty intense last night. Not the sex. I mean, the sex too. But also all the crying and the kissing.” 

“Yeah. Pretty embarrassing, all round.” Quentin’s nose pressed into his neck. “It probably won’t always be like that.” 

“I don’t know. You’ve always been a mess, and now I am, too.” Eliot looked out the window over the top of Quentin’s head. He wanted Quentin, and it hurt – he was raw, he needed to drink into oblivion. 

Quentin tilted his head up, kissed Eliot’s jaw, then his mouth. He had predictably terrible morning breath. “At least the sex was good, right?” 

He was trying to kid, but Eliot could hear the real nerves in his voice. “Baby, the sex was fucking phenomenal,” Eliot said. Of course it was: months of pent up longing, and terror, and need, all shivering out of them at once. Quentin’s wild and eager mouth. Quentin clinging to him like he was the only thing in the world. 

Eliot swallowed. “I’m gonna use Whitespire’s entirely inadequate plumbing, and then we’ll have some hot water to drink because no one’s fucking invented coffee.” 

“There’s still some instant in the kitchens,” Quentin said. “Josh brought like fourteen jars.” 

Eliot kissed him. “I can’t believe I’m this excited about instant coffee.” 

Quentin tongue pressed up into him, so what was meant to be a quick peck turned into the kind of kiss lovers were supposed to share after a month’s absence. Was everything with Quentin going to be this intense? Probably. Jesus. Eliot tugged at Quentin’s hair, and Quentin made a little happy sound in his throat, which... Definitely something to explore later. 

But Quentin got the message, pulling away, ducking his head. “Go take a piss. I’ll get us coffee.” 

*

Margo flinched when she saw him, though she tried to cover it by coughing. He would have flinched too, if he’d been around the Monster. He remembered pieces. He knew how his body felt – like it had done things no human should. His heart literally couldn’t take it. 

“Drowning in bureaucracy,” Margo said. “As fucking usual. What did the healer say?” 

He hadn’t thought about the healer since he’d got to his room, found Quentin waiting. Drunk the brandy Quentin had offered, tasted the tears on his face. 

Margo looked up at him impatiently. She was sitting at one end of the long council table, fingers ink-stained. A half-eaten pastry by her elbow. 

Eliot looked at the gusts of rain outside. “Not a lot. It’s uh... degenerative. Like they said on Earth. But I can keep myself healthy.” 

“She can’t fix you?” 

Eliot shrugged. “I could go and see the centaurs. They’d probably say the same thing.” 

“You should go to them,” Margo said, looking down at the papers. “Arrange a carriage. Or ask the _Muntjac._ ” 

“Bambi –” 

“Don’t say it.” 

“Don’t say what?” 

“That I can’t fix you,” she snapped. “That I can’t fix this. It’s your fucking _heart_ , Eliot. Figure it out. Then we can have PTSD all over each other, whatever we need.” 

She looked up at him, eyes wet. Margo and Quentin had been looking at him like that a lot lately. Fen too. 

“It’s raining,” he said. 

“And?” 

He shrugged. “I’ll probably die of... some weird old-fashioned disease like croup or diphtheria if I run around Fillory in the rain. I’d rather stay here.” 

“Because you missed me? Grow up.” She turned back to the paper, signed something savagely. 

“Quentin and I fucked last night.” 

She didn’t look up. “Good. Take him with you.” 

“Bambi...” He took her hand. “I just need to... be here for a while. I’m so fucking tired.” 

Wind hammered rain against the thin glass. Margo sighed. “That’s really coming down. Does Fillory have, like, a monsoon season? Does anyone know?” 

“I think it’s too closely based on British bucolic fantasies to have a monsoon season.” 

She snorted. “It’s probably a Biblical flood then. We’ll have to build an ark. Two of everything. We’ll leave Quentin, because I’m not sacrificing you or me.” 

“We’ll pretend he’s some kind of weird Earth dog.” Eliot sat in the chair next to Margo’s. He remembered all the times he’d sat here before, at meetings, dinners. It felt very far away. 

“I’d rather be snowed in. I always thought I’d take up skiing at some point.” Then she met his eyes again, took his hand and held it too firmly in her own. “I keep thinking you’re him. It.” 

“I know.” Eliot broke her gaze. “Everyone does. It sucks. I don’t blame you.” 

“I want you to go away so I won’t be reminded of it.” Margo sucked in her breath. “But maybe you need to be here. It’s like, what do you call it, exposure therapy. Like when you find someone who’s afraid of mice and cover them in mice.” 

“Do you do that?” 

Margo shrugged. “Ask your boyfriend. He’s the one who knows about being crazy.” 

“Bambi, I think we all know about that.” 

“Yeah.” She picked up the pastry and nibbled at one corner. “So. How was he?” 

Eliot leant his chin on his hands, angling his body a little closer to hers. He’d been... careful around her, making sure he didn’t make any sudden movements. Because he was always going to look like the Monster. They hadn’t touched very much. But she let her leg brush against his. 

“Really good,” Eliot said. 

“Oh, fuck off, I need actual details.” 

“You’ve had sex with him.” Eliot took the pastry from her hands, and put most of it in his mouth. Margo made a small sound of protest. 

“I barely remember that. Besides, it’s different now.” 

“What do you expect? He’s really needy.” It was hard to put into words. “It was a lot. We both cried. I feel... purified. Like I’d bared my breast and begged for forgiveness.” 

“That sounds like terrible sex.” 

_I think I love him,_ Eliot didn’t say. _We were in love for fifty fucking years and now we’re just making up for lost time. I miss him. This is too much and I don’t want it to ever stop._

“He’s really enthusiastic.” Eliot touched Margo’s cheek, feeling a swell of emotion, as intense as last night, but different in quality. “We’ll... we’ll work this out, won’t we?” 

“Go see the centaurs when it stops raining,” Margo said. “Don’t do anything to fuck up your heart. Have vanilla sex. And you can help, if you’re going to be sticking around. Fen and I can’t do everything. We have an alpaca situation.” 

Then she put her hand on his shoulder, and kissed his forehead. It was awkward, and unlike how they used to touch. But he was grateful. 

** 

The waters were rising outside. Rivers busting their banks. Messengers came in and out all day, discussing floods, spoiled crops. The castle smelt of wet fur, lanolin, and mud. Quentin sat on the window seat in Eliot’s chambers, leaning his forehead against the cool glass. His arm hurt where wood met muscle. 

“Bambi says we’ll build an ark,” Eliot said. He came into rooms loudly now, Quentin had noticed, alerting them to his presence. Afraid they’d freak out if they saw him suddenly. 

Quentin reached for Eliot, found Eliot’s shirt, and tugged him closer. Eliot smelt clean – cleaner than the Monster had ever been, and his face shaped expressions the Monster’s had never worn. Familiar expression – tender glances, twists of exasperation. 

He turned his head up to kiss Eliot, and then said, “That’s not actually a Fillorian tradition is it? It wasn’t in the books.” 

Eliot smiled. “A lot of things weren’t in the books. But no, I don’t think so.” 

“Good.” Quentin looked back out at the rain, the rivers of mud around the castle. Storms would pass. It was so hard to focus on anything but Eliot – and on himself, too. On the hot longing and shame coiling in his stomach. 

He needed to be drunk. He needed to be drunk, so he could be brave. But, pressed against Eliot, he said, “I wanted... I wanted the Monster to fuck me.”

Eliot was silent for a second. “To fuck you, or to hurt you?” 

Quentin wanted to leave. Jump out the window. Go back to pretending he’d never loved anyone, never needed anyone. It took an effort of will to get one syllable out. “Yes.” 

Eliot pulled away. For a horrible moment, Quentin thought he was going to leave, but then he heard the springs creak as Eliot sat on the bed. “Baby. It’s a good thing you’re so cute, because you’re very dumb.” 

His voice was... fond. 

Quentin looked up. Thought about brandy, thought about Citalopram, thought about shame. 

“You know I can do both those things to you now,” Eliot said. “I can do whatever you want to you.” 

“I was so...” He didn’t know how to put it into words. He could feel possible explanations drumming away under his tongue. He was afraid to say anything. “I was so scared.” 

Eliot sighed. “I can’t believe I’m doing this sober. Come here, Q.” 

Quentin swallowed, mouth dry. He moved from the window seat to the bed, his pulse in his throat. He focused on Eliot’s familiar rings, the way he twirled his hands around each other. The way his throat moved when he swallowed, the smell of his hair. His fingers on the back of Quentin’s neck, and then against Quentin’s scalp. He tugged at the hair, gently, at the root. 

Quentin shivered, like he’d never been touched before, like he didn’t know anything. 

Eliot would probably say that he didn’t. 

“Q, you’ve been anxious as long as I’ve known you. And I can’t imagine what it was like, when I was the Monster. You were scared. If it fucked you, if it hurt you, you could give all your control over to it. That was... comforting, in a way. You wanted to feel safe. It’s a simple concept, babe.” 

Quentin pressed his fingers into his eyes. They’d both changed. He could feel it between them, an openness, like a draft of air through a doorway. He turned his face carefully, slowly, to Eliot’s. He met familiar hazel eyes. 

He’d been holding these feelings inside himself, and here was Eliot, understanding. Understanding him better than he understood himself. And it was so... simple, and Quentin felt so small, and stupid and ashamed. 

And yet... 

He knew what he needed. What he wanted. There was a kind of freedom in that. He leant his forehead against Eliot’s shoulder, felt himself shudder, overwhelmed with the desire to cling to Eliot. To bite him, to be bitten by him. 

Without thinking about it, he sucked at the loose linen of Eliot’s shirt, at the muscle beneath. He wasn’t going to cry again. Christ. He had some dignity, didn’t he? 

No, he didn’t. There were tears on his face, a hitch in his breath, as he kissed Eliot’s shirt, as he bit at Eliot’s skin beneath the cloth. As Eliot caught him under the chin, said, “Are you making out with my clothes, you weirdo,” and kissed his mouth instead. 

**

It was going to be hard to talk about sex with Quentin, because Quentin, in this state, would have said yes to absolutely anything. Eliot knew that. He was responsible for figuring out what they both needed, for working out what Quentin’s real boundaries were. Thrilling. Fucking terrifying. 

He sucked Quentin’s lower lip, felt Quentin’s shivering response, the way Quentin’s jaw went slack. He rubbed his cheek against the familiar rasp of Quentin’s stubble, bit him below the ear. Quentin was so responsive, he was almost undone already, quivering, breath coming in little needy gasps. 

“It’s just me,” Eliot said, rubbing circles into Quentin’s back. “It’s just us.” 

“That’s the problem,” Quentin said. “God, I...” 

“Didn’t last night take the edge off?” 

Quentin shook his head, fisting his hands into Eliot’s shirt. Eliot kissed him slow, sweet, exploring the shape of his mouth. Feeling his cock growing hard in his pants. At least Quentin had stopped crying. 

“Then let’s just go with this,” Eliot said. “Let’s just...” 

He didn’t know. He bit Quentin’s neck, sucking a bruise onto Quentin’s throat. A needy keen in response. He sucked another over Quentin’s wind-pipe. Like they were teenagers. Quentin rutted against Eliot’s thigh, head thrown back. Whimpering. 

Carefully, Eliot put one hand around Quentin’s throat, under his chin. Applied pressure. Q stilled against him, then bucked into his thigh. He opened his mouth, didn’t say anything. 

“More?” Eliot said. 

The pause was so long Eliot began to be afraid that he’d fucked up. Then – “Please. Please.” 

He pulled Quentin further into his lap. Felt the heat of the man against him, the hardness of his cock. Wrapped both hands around Quentin’s throat. For a moment, Quentin reminded Eliot of a heroine in an old movie – giving himself over utterly to Eliot, swooning in his arms. It was almost too much like the fantasies Eliot’d had when they first met. The neurotic little nerd going down on his knees for him. 

It made Eliot afraid. He wanted to shake Quentin. Say _protect yourself._ Say _you can’t want things this badly._ Show him there were consequences for his actions. At the same time he loved it; felt almost awestruck by it. 

He tightened his grip, listened to Quentin’s breath. The gasp cut off by Eliot’s hand. Quentin squirmed, his eyes wide. He looked up at Eliot, and Eliot held him firmly, fingers biting into flesh. Quentin’s neck felt impossibly fragile, as though it belonged to someone else. Something else. A rabbit, a kitten. His pupils were huge – he was lost inside himself, and somehow frightened and calm at the same time. 

“Good,” Eliot said, loosening his grip. “Good boy, good,” and the vague praise seemed to be exactly what Quentin needed to hear, because as he sucked in a breath he bucked into Eliot’s thigh again, desperate, frantic. 

“Don’t come,” Eliot said, grabbing Quentin’s hip. “Not yet, have some self-control.” 

Quentin smiled suddenly, and Eliot was glad to see him in there, not entirely lost. “Like you have any.” 

“You think I don’t, baby?” Eliot increased the pressure, just a little bit. “You think I couldn’t make you black out?” 

He watched as Quentin’s face flushed. Slowly let him go. “You think I don’t want to fuck your mouth until you choke?” 

Quentin coughed. “Who says I’ll choke?” 

He looked so dishevelled, the stupid hickeys on his neck, his hair tangled and sweaty, that it made Eliot smile too. He leant his forehead against the Quentin’s, touched their mouths in a kiss that began bruising and turned tender. 

“Get undressed,” Eliot said, voice accusing, like it was Quentin’s oversight. “Why are you still wearing clothes?” 

Outside, the half-dark of a rainy day had turned to the full dark of evening. Whitespire’s enchanted lamps guttered alight and cast shadows all around the walls. The sheets smelt of lavender, thyme, and hay – clean, Fillory scents. Eliot pulled Quentin down on top of him, running his hands over the skinny flanks, the curve of his ass. 

Eliot had been with men with bodies he liked more – more muscle, more flesh. Men who were objectively better looking. He’d been with men with bigger cocks, men who paid more attention to their pubic hair, men who paid more attention, in general, to being aesthetically appealing. And men who just were more beautiful than Quentin, without trying. And yet he wanted Quentin so much he felt seared by it. Burnt. Like he was going to need Quentin over and over and over and never be done. 

He cupped his hand around Quentin’s genitals, the wild fuzz of pubic hair, the jut of Quentin’s cock. Quentin whimpered into Eliot’s throat, thrusting against him. 

“You’re going to put that cock inside me,” Eliot said, pinching Quentin’s balls as he said it. 

Quentin looked up at him, mouth open, anxious. _Yes, Eliot_ , he was going to say, Eliot could see it, but he was uncertain. Like he thought Eliot had misunderstood something fundamental.

Eliot gripped Quentin’s shoulder instead of his groin and ass. “You don’t have to, baby. But ask yourself if you don’t want to because it’s too much; or if it’s because you’re in the middle of a sub fantasy and you’ve internalised the idea that the one putting the dick inside the other is the one who’s in charge? Because it’s fine if it’s the first, but...” He kissed Quentin’s forehead. “The second is sexist bullshit.” 

“Shit,” Quentin said. “Do you have to... How can you talk about this so easily? How can you talk about _anything_ so easily when you’re hard?”

He laughed, cupping Quentin’s cheek. “Q. You’re so dumb. You have to _talk_ about this, you can’t read my mind.” 

“But it’s...” Quentin licked his lips. “I mean, I’ve watched porn, but I don’t think I have the words for any of this. 

Eliot rolled his eyes. How had Quentin come so far and remained so naive? 

He ran his hand through Quentin’s hair, heard the hitch of his breath. “I’ll talk you through it. You won’t feel like you’re in charge of anything. I know you hate that.” 

“I don’t...” Quentin shut his eyes. Smiling, surrendering. “Yeah, I do hate that.” 

Eliot kissed him again, felt that same rush of power and fear. There was lube on the night stand, Earth’s finest Durex in the drawer. Eliot found them both. 

“I’m, uh. Clean. I don’t need...” Quentin began, looking at the condoms. 

Eliot didn’t want to say it, but did. “We don’t know exactly what the Monster did. The healers’ tests haven’t all come back yet.” 

He tried to push it away, not to think about it. Not to see Quentin’s sudden, pained look. 

Quentin wasn’t as hard as he had been, but it only took Eliot a couple of touches to get him eager again. His breath hitched as Eliot slid the condom on him. Slicked him down with lube. Eliot drew his legs up, opened himself to Q. Quentin stared down at him, hair falling into his face. Licking his lips, uncertain. 

“Eliot, I...” 

“Shh, baby.” Eliot fingered himself, felt the slow, familiar burn. Quentin’s eyes were huge, tongue against his lip. Sometimes fingers were better than cock, but right now he wanted Quentin. That shuddering thrust. He wrapped his other hand around Quentin’s cock. 

There was a moment of awkwardness, Quentin rutting uncertainly against Eliot’s cleft, but they worked it out. The ache as Quentin slid inside. Then the longing, the need for more of him, the heat pooling in his groin. Quentin’s cock was a good size for anal, easy to take in. Eliot hadn’t done this in a while. He felt the stretch, the fullness. 

And Quentin took Eliot at his word: he was shaking with want, but he looked to Elliot to guide each touch, to talk him through it all. Eliot was game for that, pulling Quentin down on top of him, digging his fingers into Quentin’s ass, saying, “Yes, like that, up a little, oh good boy, oh keep doing that, keep...” 

Quentin was never going to last long. He apologised as he came, shivering, hiding his face in Eliot’s neck, and Eliot tugged his hair and said, “Don’t worry. You have no idea how many times we’re going to do this.” 

Eliot was shocked at how happy Quentin looked. Like Eliot had given him a gift. And Quentin was so fucking eager to go down on him, to suck the orgasm out of him, and Eliot was hardly going to discourage that. 

2\. 

“Better?” Eliot said afterwards, keeping Quentin on top of him, idly stroking his hair. 

“Better,” Quentin agreed.

Then the door was flung open. “So it’s my fault,” Margo said. She paused, looking at them. “Jesus, how many hickeys did you need to give Quentin?” 

“He likes it,” Eliot said. They were lying on top of the blanket, but he managed to pull some of it over them. So Quentin’s ass, at least, wasn’t quite so visible. 

“Oh, God,” Quentin said, pressing his face into Eliot’s neck. 

“What’s your fault, Bambi?” Eliot asked, since she seemed to have no intention of leaving. 

“The rain,” Margo said. “Well, it’s not my fault this country takes everything literally.”

Quentin made a soft, unhappy sound, and rolled off Eliot, pulling the sheets around both of them. He squinted at Margo as though he couldn’t yet process the intrusion. 

“Explain,” Eliot said. 

“Because its High King is sad, and because the moons are aligned with the goddamn constellation Goat’s-foot, it’s going to rain until I feel better.” She sighed. “It’s so fucking ridiculous I don’t even want to think about it.” 

She was distressed; Eliot could hear it in her voice. He sat up. Quentin stayed glued to his side, but said, after a moment’s thought, “It’s mentioned in _The Wandering Dune_. When, uh, High King Rupert failed to save his advisor from...” 

“Great, how did he fix it?” 

“It didn’t say.” 

Margo sighed, and came and sat on the edge of the bed. Well, Eliot thought, he’d promised Quentin they’d do this many more times. There would be many more afterglows. There was only ever one Bambi. 

“So. This is a thing now,” she said, looking between them. 

Eliot nodded. Smiled. “Until Q gets sick of cock, of course,” he said. Joking around the fear. 

Margo snorted. “Quentin’s bi, Eliot. How is that concept beyond you?” 

Quentin actually smiled. “Thank you, Margo.” 

“Eliot’s the worst bi ally,” she said, trying to roll the tension out of her shoulders. 

“He’s really dumb. It’s probably not his fault,” Quentin said. 

“I thought you were the stupid one,” Eliot said, keeping his fingers on the warm skin of Quentin’s back. 

Margo rolled her eyes. “I’m the only smart one in this relationship. Remember that.” 

“How could I forget?” Eliot asked. 

“I don’t know, you won’t get over your weird shame-slash-biphobia thing, and it’s not a good look,” Margo said. 

Quentin had stiffened beside him, wrapping the sheet more firmly around his torso. Both he and Margo looked... not upset, but not quite as fond of him as the usually did. It was kind of nice though, to fuck up in a human way, not in a lives-destoryed kind of way. 

“Oh my God, do we really need to talk about how sexuality is a spectrum?” Eliot gestured to all three of them. “We’re all queer, I get it... Shouldn’t we be worried about the pathetic fallacy we’re apparently living in?” 

“That what now?” Margo asked. 

“It’s a literary device,” Quentin said. “When the weather reflects the character’s mood. So if they’re happy, it’s sunny....” 

“And if they’re sad it rains. Fuck. This is _Wuthering Heights_ level bullshit.” Margo flopped back on the bed. “The water’s rising way faster than should be possible.” 

“Can we get dressed?” Quentin said. “We can fix this.” 

“Uh-huh.” Margo rolled onto her stomach, resting her chin on her hands. “Oh, you want me to leave. Yeah, OK.” 

*

They convened in the throne room. Quentin contorted himself onto one of the chairs, feet underneath him, in a pose that didn’t look like it could be comfortable. Eliot decided to put Quentin’s flexibility to good use soon. 

Margo filled goblets with wine. “Alcohol’s a depressant,” Quentin said. “Maybe you shouldn’t...” 

“Piss off,” Margo said, sipping. Eliot could feel the sex glow dissipating. For a few moments, with Quentin’s cock inside him, he’d felt like everything might be OK. Which was bullshit of course, but it was still a feeling he would have liked to cling on to. 

The fire flickered in the grate; the throne room smelt of moss and damp stone walls. He shivered. Clearly, the best way to ride out a rainstorm was in bed with a cute boy. Perhaps that was what Margo needed too. 

He looked at her thin face, the shadows under her eyes. Possibly it wouldn’t solve everything, but it couldn’t hurt. 

“Where should we start?” Quentin picked up the goblet Margo had poured for him. “Do we need to get books from Brakebills?” 

“Shouldn’t we...” Eliot paused. It sounded ridiculous to him even as he thought of it. 

“What?” Margo prompted. 

“Shouldn’t we just make you happy?”

Margo didn’t say anything, and her expression was unreadable. 

Q said, “I don’t know how easy that will be. I mean. I don’t know how Margo’s feeling, but I know you can’t just make yourself be happy. Even if other people are trying to help.” 

Eliot flopped down on the table. His ass ached in a familiar, very pleasant way. “Yeah, it probably wasn’t a practical idea.” 

“This fucking country,” Margo said. “Holding my feelings hostage. I can’t be miserable now? I have to live through... through thinking you were gone, all of it, and be happy about it?” 

Her eyes were wet. Eliot went to hold her, and she flinched, and his heart burned. This time, it was probably just emotion. But it still hurt. 

** 

Fen woke with words on her lips, the sound she made jerking her from sleep. _Help,_ she’d been saying in her sleep. _Help._

Well. She rubbed her face. Her ceiling was leaking, a drip plink-plinking onto the floor by her bed. And she was still dressed, her clothes crumpled: she hadn’t meant to sleep at all. Her mouth tasted terrible. It was still raining outside, as hard as ever. 

She thought of Margo’s face when Tick had worked out why they were flooded. Angry, mostly, Fen judged. That anger must be hiding a lot of despair. She worked her way off the bed, put on her slippers. She was hungry, and her father had always said a hot drink was the best cure for a bad dream. 

Voices came from the throne room: not an argument, but a loud conversation. Fen peered inside: the three of Children of Earth were in there – Quentin scrunched up in a chair, Eliot looking dazed and well-fucked, Margo staring into a wine glass. 

“Bring dinner,” Fen said to the nearest palace servant. “Something hot.” 

Fen sighed. Why did she have to deal with everything? She wanted to go running naked in the rain with the talking badgers and foxes, breath in the wild earth smells, and come home to a hot bath, like she’d done with the other girls when she was a teenager. She wanted to embrace normal life for once. 

Eliot greeted her with a smile. He looked less shadowy than he’d done when he first came home, but his concentration was entirely on Quentin. Even when he wasn’t looking at Quentin, he seemed to cleave towards him. 

That was OK. Eliot wasn’t her first priority any more either. 

“Got any good ideas?” Margo said. She looked up at Fen with her clear, brown gaze. How beautiful she was – how that annoyed Fen. 

“Yes.” Fen sat down beside her, and opposite Quentin. “We’re going to eat something.” 

* 

For the last week, Quentin and Eliot had seemed to be always on the edge of hysteria: emotional, anxious. Throwing themselves into each other for reassurance. Fen wondered if this was what love looked like. Over dinner, she and Margo listened to the rain, worried about the farmers in the lowlands, discussed the canals and the mills. 

After dinner, they didn’t have any fresh ideas. Eliot got up from the table, came to stand near Margo. “We’ll go to Brakebills in the morning and get some new books,” he said, in a tone that he probably thought was reassuring. 

“We will crack this,” Quentin agreed. His fingers were working in his hair, tugging at it. Fen wanted to tell him that was exactly the way to make it greasy. 

Margo sighed. “Not tonight, you’re right. If you two want to go and fuck, go. Don’t let me get in your way.” 

Eliot looked down at her. “A-are you sure?” 

“Someone might as well be happy,” Margo said. “And Quentin’s puppy-dog eyes are driving me crazy.” 

“If you need anything...” Eliot bent down. Carefully touched his cheek to Margo’s. 

“Yeah, yeah...” Margo said. 

Quentin said goodbye to both of them. Eliot, Fen thought, had forgotten she was there. Typical. She sighed, poured Margo more wine, and turned to face her. “Good plan, getting rid of them.”

Margo shrugged. “They’re no help, anyway. Q cries all the time he’s not sucking Eliot’s cock.” 

That made Fen laugh. “We’re better at solving problems, anyway,” she said. 

Margo leant her chin on her hand. “I used to just rub one out in a hot bath and take an Ambien. I don’t know if I was happy, but it didn’t rain like this.” 

“Magic is... fickle,” Fen said. “It’s emotional too. Maybe it’s having a bad day, and that’s why it’s responding to you. And Goat’s-foot is a very depressive constellation.” 

“Oh, great. Can we give it a hot bath and an Ambien?” 

Margo’s voice had lost its edge. She sounded almost pleading. This, more than anything, unnerved Fen. 

“You haven’t really... talked about it. Any of it,” Fen said. “Maybe that’s what you need to do.” 

Margo raised her eyebrows. “Fuck that,” she said. She was silent for a long time, and then sucked in a breath. “I can’t talk to Eliot. He and Quentin are barely keeping it together. They’re one bad night away from a nervous breakdown. Besides, I don’t know what I’d say.” 

“You can talk to me,” Fen said. “That’s actually what I meant.” 

“Oh.” Margo met Fen’s eyes. 

“It was awful for both of us. Different, but awful.” 

Margo turned away. “No offence, but you’re not the person I’d chose for a therapist, or a confidant. I’d rather get drunk with a bear.” 

Fen bit down her irritation. “It’s supposed to help. It’s not supposed to be... fun.” 

Margo snorted. “Yeah, well. Nothing is ever fun.” 

Irritation and exhaustion warred within Fen. She wanted to give up. She wanted to go back where she’d come from. Fuck Fillory. Fuck Eliot. She’d make some knives and take care of herself. She was sick to death of all of them. All the pain they’d brought her. 

Also, she was sick of being one of the few people in the castle who wasn’t getting any. 

She took Margo’s hand, because if she wasn’t going to leave this was the only option she could see. “I need to... take the edge off,” she said, and leant towards Margo. The kiss she pressed to Margo’s mouth was small, chaste, far less than she wanted. Margo’s skin smelt of wine, her lips dry. 

“Well...” Margo said. She turned more fully towards Fen. “Is this your idea of talking?” 

Fen pressed forward, felt the heat of Margo skin. She kissed her again, the side of her mouth, her chin. Margo swallowed, put down her goblet, and cupped Fen’s cheek with one hand. 

“Better than Ambien?” Fen asked. 

Margo actually smiled. “Don’t catch any feelings,” she said. “This is a one-time, get-rid-of-frustrations deal, yes?” 

As though Fen would catch any feelings for Margo! That was insulting. She bit Margo’s lower lip, then sucked it into her mouth. Margo made a faint sound in the back of her throat. 

“Yes,” Fen said against Margo’s tongue. 

The heat of Margo’s mouth. She nipped at Fen, her fingers winding in Fen’s hair, hand clasping Fen’s wrist. She wouldn’t let Fen take the lead; wouldn’t let her feel in control. Fen wasn’t surprised: why should Margo be different in bed than anywhere else? 

And yet – it was a little bit thrilling to have Margo’s full attention. 

“Your place or mine?” Margo said. “I don’t like the idea of one of the alpacas finding us in here.” 

They’d understand, Fen though. Alpacas were a very sensual species. 

The question seemed to be rhetorical though, because Margo pulled Fen to her feet, and led them to her chambers. Margo’s room were more lavish than Fen’s, but her ceiling leaked too. Fen stood for a moment at the edge of the bed, her breath quick in her chest, thinking – _Do I actually want to fuck Margo? Is that what I’m doing?_

Her whole body was saying yes. Definitely yes. Margo might be a pain in her ass but – yes. She wanted to fuck her so badly it hurt. 

“Help me out of this,” Margo said, turning her back to Fen, gesturing to the complications of corset along her spine. Fen unfastened the hooks-and-eyes slowly, running her thumb over Margo’s supple back, the curve of her ass. She was beautiful. Sometimes Fen was frustrated by how susceptible she was to Margo’s looks, but right now she was simply enjoying them. She kissed Margo between her shoulder-blades, right on her tattoo. 

Margo stepped out of her dress, kicked it to the side. Fen felt a pang for that beautiful silk. Then she looked up at Margo, at the shape of her collar-bones, her delicate breasts. 

“Take your clothes off,” Margo said. 

Fen bit her lip. “You don’t have to say it like that.” 

Margo looked at her. Her brows drew together, as though she was annoyed. Then she said, “You want me to beg?” 

“No, just don’t treat me like I’m your... Like you don’t respect me.” Fen felt herself flush as she said it. She felt vulnerable, and wished she didn’t. 

Margo sat on the bed, crossing naked legs. There was a long silence before Margo said, “I do respect you, Fen.” The rain plinked onto the floor. Margo sighed. “Have I ruined the mood?” 

“No,” Fen said. No – she was impressed that Margo had given any ground at all. And Margo looked so good, just sitting there, thighs pressed together. Fen’s vulva clenched. 

She touched Margo’s cheek, pleased, again, that she was touching Margo’s warm skin, seeing those dark eyes focus on her. “You’ll have to undo it at the back for me. The straps always gets into a knot, just there.” 

Her skin tingled under Margo’s fingers. The dress undid with one quick tug, and Fen stepped out of her underthings. She was temped to make a point by folding her own clothes, but she was too distracted by looking at Margo, feeling her own naked skin so close to Margo’s. This was better than a rain party with the village girls. 

“Your breasts...” Fen breathed. “They’re very...” She wasn’t sure what words to use. Plump? Symmetrical? She wanted to lick them, the soft curves of them, the dark nipple. 

“I know,” Margo said. “You can touch them.” 

Fen sat next to her on the bed, pressed her face into Margo’s breasts, licked the soft skin, the nipple. _Ember and Umber._ Why did it feel so good? This skin, this softness? Why was touching another person’s breasts so delicious? Margo made a faint sound when Fen tongued the nipple, and bucked a little under Fen’s mouth. 

She ran her fingers through Fen’s hair, guided Fen up for another kiss. Her hands skimmed over Fen’s stomach, cupped her breasts, thumbed the nipples. Fen felt herself melt a little with pleasure. Margo increased the pressure, rubbing faster circles, until Fen’s breath came in gasps. Margo nipped at her jaw, licked the edge of Fen’s ear. Fen felt the wet heat inside her grow, grow. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Margo asked. 

“Yes,” Fen said instantly, the word coming without her having to consider it. “Yes, please, more.” 

Margo smiled. “Lie back,” she said. 

Fen did so, opening her legs. She remembered a boyfriend telling her she was wanton, too eager, her legs drawing apart too easily, her vulva too wet. She knew, now, he was an asshole, but his words stayed with her when she smelt her own musk, felt her wetness. 

“Beautiful,” Margo said, so softly Fen could have missed it. She slid between Fen’s legs, half on top of her. Their breasts touched. Margo’s heat seeped into her, her weight. Fen’s legs came up, wrapping around Margo’s waist, her heels touching the top of Margo’s ass. 

She leaned up, into Margo, kissing her, pressing her wet vulva against Margo’s stomach. It felt good, fuck it felt good, the heat of Margo, the soft skin against her own, tugging Margo against her, into her. 

Margo braced herself over Fen with one hand, and reached down with the other, thumb finding Fen’s clit. Fen was so wet, she slid like silk under Margo’s fingers. She bucked, rutting her clit into Margo’s palm. 

“Your fingers in me,” Fen said. “Please.” 

“Anything you say.” Margo’s face was flushed now, and she was smiling very slightly, her hair falling into her face, and into Fen’s. She thrust one finger into Fen’s cunt, crooking it upwards. Yes. Yes. 

“More.” Fen pressed up against Margo, nipping at her chin, her lip, kissing her clumsily. “More fingers, harder.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Margo said, slid that finger out, and replaced it with three. 

Oh. Yes. That was better. That was... good. Fen rocked back against her, her breath coming in quick gasps. “A little more... curve them a bit more...” she whimpered, craving Margo’s touch against a certain spot inside of her, the spot her lovers always struggled to find. 

Margo adjusted her angle, looked into Fen’s face, adjusted again. A shock of pleasure surged through Fen. “Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, there.” 

And Margo seemed to know what she needed, fucking her rapidly, hitting the spot again and again and again, Fen rocking with her, hips rising to meet each thrust. It felt so good, Fen was choking on each breath, and Margo was touching her, touching her, filling her up with pleasure. She wrapped her thighs tighter around Margo’s torso, pulled them together, they were skin to skin, moving as one. And Fen was whimpering, gasping. She felt the orgasm spread through, and managed to say, “Don’t stop.” 

She rode Margo through the aftershocks, she rode her fingers until the heat was building again, again. Margo pressed her forehead to Fen’s shoulder, bit the skin under her mouth, and Fen whimpered at the tug of teeth, the shivers of pleasure. She came again, and felt her muscles give out, tremble, melt into the bed. 

Then they were lying on their sides, face to face, and Fen wasn’t entirely sure how they’d got there. Margo was licking her fingers. “God, you’re wet.” She held her fingers to Fen’s mouth. “Taste yourself.” 

Fen sucked Margo’s finger into her mouth. Her breath felt raw in her throat; she was very thirsty. She tongued Margo’s palm, sucked so hard she felt the finger against the back of her throat. Salt, musk. She slid it out, leant forward, kissed Margo’s mouth again. She was clumsy. Impossibly relaxed. 

“What do you want?” she asked Margo, when she felt coordinated enough to make an offer. 

“Your mouth,” Margo said. “Come down here.” 

Fen lay on her stomach between Margo’s thighs, propping herself up with her elbows. Margo’s pubic hair was mostly shaved off, different from Fen’s own. It was strange to see the folds of her labia so clearly, unobscured. She licked them experimentally, and felt Margo respond with a gasp. Margo’s thighs were damp, her pussy glistening. 

It made Fen feel proud. She had done that. She could get Margo aroused like that. 

She bent forward, licking the length of Margo’s vulva. “Hmm,” Margo murmured, and began to give instructions. Fen thought she didn’t really need them, that Margo’s vulva was as easy to understand as her own, but she didn’t complain. Giving instructions made Margo feel secure, and, running her tongue around Margo’s swollen clit, Fen just wanted Margo to be happy. 

* 

Long after they should have been asleep, Fen felt Margo roll over. She turned so they faced one another. 

“It’s...” Margo swallowed. Fen couldn’t see her face in the dark. “It was terrible, and I want to be happy now, and I’m not. I’m so... Everything is still so fucked up.” She swallowed wetly. “I keep thinking ‘I want to go home’. I don’t know what that means. I don’t want to go back to Earth... This is home, whatever home means. But. I want to go home.” 

“You want things to go... back,” Fen said. “When they were easier.” 

“Yeah.” Margo coughed. “When was that, exactly?” 

Fen sighed. “Eliot was different.” 

“He was always a fucking mess though.” 

“He was.” She laughed. Eliot’s fear; his trembling hands, how she’d tried to guide him, how useless that had been. She wasn’t sure why it seemed funny now. “You weren’t, though. Maybe that’s the difference.” 

“Yeah. Maybe it is.” Margo’s teeth clicked together. “And his heart...” 

“I know,” Fen said, thinking of his heart, irrevocably damaged. Whether it hurt. Of course it hurt. 

There was another long silence, and then Margo said, “Come on, roll over. I’ll spoon you.” 

Fen lay still for a moment, wanting to refuse. Then she rolled over, and felt Margo’s arm around her waist, Margo’s warmth against her back, the press of her breasts. Margo drew in one shuddering breath, than another. Margo’s face pushed into the back of Fen’s neck. The flutter of Margo’s eye-lashes, her too-warm breath. 

Eventually, Margo started to snore. After a long time, Fen dozed. 

When she woke, it was still raining, but the sun, beginning to rise, turned the clouds rose-gold.


End file.
